Broken Mirrors
by AgathaKillian
Summary: In order to cheer him up, Dean convinces Castiel to go on a hunt that seems to be simple salt and burn. But they soon find out that in facing this ghost, Dean will have to face some ghosts of his own. Case fic sometime post season 8, no pairings (Maybe Destiel if you squint) WARNING: Strong language, mentions of violence and child abuse/neglectment. M to be safe.
1. Prologue

**Name:** Broken Mirrors.

**Author:** Me, the one and only Agatha Killian!

**Summary: **In other to cheer him up, Dean convinces Castiel to go on a simple salt and burn hunt. But in facing this ghost, Dean will have to face some ghosts of his own. Case fic, basically.

**Pairings:** None unless you wish really hard.

**Spoilers: **Mild ones for season 8.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters, nor am I making money from this. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**WARNINGS: **Offensive language, violence, child abuse/neglectment.

* * *

Prologue

"SIMON!"

James Farley's voice resounded around the house, but there was no one there to hear him. It was two o'clock in the morning, and he'd jut woke up in his usual spot: the couch in front of the TV. He wouldn't have screamed, but he noticed his beer had spilt, and fuck it if he was getting up to get some more himself. That's what the little shit of his son was for.

"Simon!" James screamed again. "Get your ass down here, or so help me…!"

The alcoholic fog in his mind cleared enough for him to remember the little shit had been gone for a few days. James wasn't worried. The fucking kid was probably going to stumble back the minute he ran out of the money he'd stolen from James' night table. Oh, and how he was going to regret it; James would make sure of it.

But until then, there was nobody to fetch him his beer, so, groaning and complaining, the man stood up. This was no easy task: his size had doubled ever since the slut of his wife had run away, leaving him stranded with the little shit. James refused to cook; why do it when he could pay some bastard to bring him a pizza? When Simon had protested that that wasn't healthy and that he wanted to eat a home-cook meal like his mother used to made, James had punched him in the mouth so he would learn to be thankful. James paid for the food, so they would eat whatever the fuck he said they'd eat.

He found the last pack of beer on the fridge, and was about to return to the couch when he heard something on the porch. He figured the fucking kid had come back, sneaking in the middle of the night, thinking James wouldn't hear him. Well, he damn well did, and the time he was done with that ungrateful little shit, the entire block would hear him too.

"Is that you, Simon?" he asked, adopting the soft tone he sometimes used before dragging the kid out of the closet or from under the bed. He wanted his son to be a real man, not a sissy who hid instead of facing punishment.

He walked towards the hall, but it was empty. The door was still locked from the inside, like he had left it when he came home from work. Fuck it; it'd probably been a cat or something. The Lord knew they had their fair share of strays around.

James went back to the couch, and started channel surfing until he found a porn movie that looked interesting enough. He smiled to himself, and internally thanked the faggot of his next door neighbor, whose cable he had been stealing for the last five years. Not that the cocksucker needed porn anyway, right? One of these days, James was going to give him a piece of his mind about him and his disgusting lifestyle, but for now, he deserved some little fun.

He had just reached inside his boxers and was about to start enjoying himself when a loud noise startled him: it was like someone had knocked on the window; on all of the windows at the same time, to be exact. The glass was still vibrating when James got up again; his heart pounding loudly because of the effort. If some motherfucking thief wanted to come into his house and try to steal his hard-earned money, he would show him!

He found the gunshot he kept in the closet underneath the stairs, and loaded it; which was hard to accomplish: his fingers were trembling. Suddenly, the whole house seemed to be freezing, which made no sense, because they were in the middle of fucking June.

James climbed the stairs; the steps creaking under his weight. He didn't care if the thief heard him coming. The motherfucker would know what was good once he'd put a bullet to his head. He was just a man defending his property. He imagined the bastard was probably a nigger or a spic, and he would do the world a favor by getting rid of him. No jury would convict him. In fact, they might even congratulate him.

Gloating in his imaginary heroism, he reached the top of the stairs and walked by his son's room (Why would the thief be there? The little shit had nothing worth stealing) and kicked open the door of his, holding the shotgun next to his face. There was nothing inside, except for his untidy bed and a bunch of clothes scattered on the floor. He cursed under his breath. It was the little shit's job to do the laundry, and if he didn't come back, James would have to it himself. Oh, how was Simon going to regret running away…

He closed the door, and watched his breath spiraling up under the moonlight. What was wrong with the thermostat? James was about to turn around and go check it, when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow moving.

It was there for a second, and then it was gone, but James was sure he'd seen it (it never crossed his mind he wasn't completely sober). It was the figure of a man, not very tall – though granted; no one was very tall or big when compared to him. He raised his weapon.

"Get out o' my house!" he yelled, and blindly fired a warning shot. The thunder deafened him for a second, but he recovered quickly, and spun on his heals, looking for the intruder. "I ain't kidding! I will fucking kill you!"

His finger was about to pull the trigger again, when he realized he was aiming at his own reflection. The stupidly big mirror in the hallway had been his wife idea (some Feng Shui shit of sorts), and he'd never gotten around getting rid of it. The movement he thought he'd seen had probably been his own. Swearing, he let the gunshot on the floor, and put his hands on both sides of the mirror to take it down.

There was a boy standing behind him.

James stopped and turned. There was no one in the hallway, but he could have sworn he saw him: a teenage boy, tall and rather slim, looking at him from his reflection in the mirror. But he had vanished, and James was as alone as he had been a second ago. His breathing became shallower. He picked up the shotgun.

"You think you can scare me, punk?" he screamed. His voice was quivering slightly, but he convinced himself it was because the air had grown colder still. "Come on!"

And there was the boy again: standing at his left, he appeared so suddenly and silent James took a step backwards, startled. He noticed the boy's left ear was bleeding profusely, but he didn't even blink, piercing James with a pair of eyes that were dark and cruel.

James tried to let out another threat, another boast of how he was going to make him regret getting into his house, but his mouth had gone dry. He raised the gun, and shot.

The bullet went right through the boy, and shattered the mirror behind him. He stood there, unharmed; his eyes now burned with a fiery hate that terrified James. Too late, the man understood he should have run.

The boy took a step towards him, and James Farley started screaming.

But then again, there was no one in the house to hear him.


	2. Act 1 - Broken Mirrors

Act 1 – Broken Mirrors

Castiel couldn't quite believe Dean had convinced him of doing this. But, of course, Dean had once persuaded him to rebel against everything he believed in, so it shouldn't really come as a surprise the hunter could manipulate him into anything.

"Come on, Cas, this'll be good for you," he had told the fallen angel. "You need to get out of this bunker, get around a bit…"

"Why would I leave just to come right back, Dean?"

Dean sighed, and Castiel could almost see his patience draining out. "I mean do something besides moping and brooding in your room."

Castiel still wasn't sure what his friend would have him do, so he just stared in silence until Dean felt the need to elaborate.

"Look, this case sounds like a simple salt and burn," he said, pointing at the newspaper he had been scanning earlier. "Nothing too big. It's perfect to get you started in the business."

Castiel begged to differ. He was pretty certain he would be more of a hindrance than a help, even if it was a simple "salt and burn", so he turned to Sam for support. The younger Winchester was barely discernible beneath the three covers Dean insisted he needed.

"Please, go on the hunt with him," Sam pleaded. "He's going to drive us all insane."

"Word," said Kevin; his voice muffled by the heavy bandages he had to wear on his face.

It wasn't just doubt in his abilities that was holding Castiel back. Just the previous week, they'd had a clash with a group of very angry angels that were trying to assassinate Castiel. They had escaped (only just), and Sam and Kevin had ended heavily wounded. Dean had been taking care of them, while Castiel locked himself in his room, convinced he was the cause of all his friend's problems, and getting a load on the fact that his family wanted him dead. But that morning, Dean had barged in through the door, dragged him to the kitchen so he could have some decent breakfast with everybody, and was now trying to convince him that all he needed to cheer up was a nice little hunt.

Castiel was starting to wonder if Dean was the people expert he once thought him to be.

"Come on, Cas, you can ride shotgun!"

"I am certain you are perfectly capable of handling this case on your own, Dean."

And that was when Dean had shot him "the look". Castiel considered himself a bit of a specialist in Dean Winchester's expressions (given that he'd raised the man from hell and basically reconstructed his body from scratch), and he knew that when Dean frowned like that, pursed his lips, and lowered his shoulders as if he was gathering enough air to enter a screaming contest with a banshee; it meant that the hunter was getting really mad, but he was containing everything he wanted to say because he didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. The former angel raised his hands, as if he was trying to stop the avalanche of Dean's rage.

"My shooting skills are still poor, my sleeping cycle continues to be out of order, and as you keep reminding me, cop shows are not proper research on how to conduct an interrogation," he explained. "I would make a very low quality hunter."

"But that's just the point, Cas," said Dean. "How are you going to improve if you don't practice?"

"Please, Cas," Sam insisted. "Get him out of our backs for a few days."

In the end, Castiel caved in, and found himself on the way to Waterham, Missouri. It was only a few hours' drive and Dean decided it would be a good idea to spend that time broadening Castiel's taste in human music by blasting out the noisiest of his classic rock music collection and singing along enthusiastically. Castiel didn't have the heart to tell him he was getting a headache from all those guitars and drums.

Because, after all, Dean would just persuade him to keep listening.

* * *

"Let me do the talking," said Dean, when they arrived at the town's police department. "I'm agent James Page, this is agent John Boham," Dean introduced them, flashing his fake badge in front of the first officer that came their way. "We are here about…"

"The murders?" the officer completed. "Yes, was about time you guys show up."

"Murders?" Dean repeated. "There has been more than one?"

The officer sighed heavily, like he thought Dean was playing with him in order to waste his time. "Let me call Detective Martinez."

Detective Martinez turned out to be a middle aged woman, with a severe expression and a severe bum of black hair. Her desk was overcrowded by folders and pictures. The woman herself seemed a bit overcrowded, with big earrings that almost grazed her shoulders, a prominent nose and at least two colorful scars surrounding her neck. Dean was reminded of the least friendly Math teacher he'd had.

"I'm sorry, agents," she yawned. "These cases had been keeping me up."

Like they couldn't see that in the big violet circles under her eyes, and the several plastic cups scattered around her desk. Dean felt a shot of compassion for the poor woman.

"Tell us what you think, detective," he said.

"I've never seen anything like this," said Detective Martinez. "The man last night… this psycho's escalating."

"Why don't we start from the beginning?" Dean suggested while he and Castiel sat in front of her desk.

"Right, of course," she said, and opened one of the folders for them to see.

In the last six months, three men had been murdered. Amos Stern and Normal Stiles presented clear marks of taking a beating before having their throats slit. In both cases, the murder weapon came from a piece of mirrors already present at the house. There were no signs of force entry, no DNA, no prints, nothing for the police to keep investigating in either of the murder scenes. That only confirmed Dean's theory that they were dealing with a particularly bloodthirsty ghost.

"And then two days ago, we found James Farley," Detective Martinez handed them a third folder. "I've never seen anything like it. There was blood everywhere."

Dean understood her shivering as soon as he saw the pictures. Farley had not only been beaten, he had been carefully dismembered and practically decapitated.

"You sure this is the same guy?" he asked Detective Martinez while Castiel analyzed the photos with his usual frown.

"This looks far more gruesome than the previous ones," the former angel pointed.

"We are sure," Detective Martinez sighed. "The weapon used to mutilate Farley was a mirror shard."

She glared at them like she was defying them to tell her that had to be some kind of mistake. Farley had obviously been a pretty heavy guy, and even if he hadn't, you needed a weapon sharper and bigger than a piece of mirror to cause all that damage. Dean didn't even try to argue. Detective Martinez seemed like a competent woman who had taken all of that into consideration, found no way of making sense of it, and just given up to the facts. And besides, a ghost could certainly pull that kind of thing.

"There is another link between the victims," said the detective once it was clear none of them was going to contradict her. She pulled another folder for them to see. "This is what I was originally investigating."

Dean shifted in his seat, uneasy. Detective Martinez had just handed them the picture of a seven year old girl, with pony tails and uneven teeth. He hated when kids were involved.

"This is Missy Stern," she told them. "She's the granddaughter of Amos Stern, the first victim. Missy is the daughter of a single mom who works two jobs, so Amos was her primary caretaker. She went missing a week before the murder. We thought the incidents were isolated… until the Harrow twins went missing too."

She presented them a second photograph, this one with a boy and a girl holding hands and refusing to smile at the camera. Dean calculated they must be around nine or ten years old.

"Any relationship with Stiles?" he asked.

"They were his stepchildren," Detective Martinez explained. "There was a pretty ugly divorce going on before the kids disappeared. Same thing: a week later, Norman gets the mirror."

"And Farley?" asked Dean. "He had a kid too?"

Detective Martinez took out a third picture. This was different than the others: while Missy and the Harrows had obviously been photographed by their parents, the Farley kid (Simon, the detective told them) had just one of those obligatory pictures for school. He was eleven years old.

"We didn't know Simon was gone," Detective Martinez said. "It was pretty common that he was absent at school, and James Farley never reported him missing."

"Why wouldn't he report his son missing?" asked Castiel.

* * *

"Because he was an ASSHOLE!"

Both Dean and Castiel jumped in their seats, surprised that such a small guy as James Farley's neighbor could yell that loud. His boyfriend held his hand.

"We're sorry, agents," he said. "I know we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but Farley was…"

"An asshole," said the neighbor. Ethan, Dean remembered. His name was Ethan Something.

"Okay," said Dean. "Could you be more specific about the nature of his… uhm…?" he looked at Castiel looking for help. The angel always seemed to have the right word anyway.

"Assholery?" Castiel tried. Or maybe not.

"Oh, where do I start?" Ethan rolled his eyes. "He stole my cable, he would take out the trash at the wrong hours, he didn't recycle, he was rude and vulgar, and don't even get me started about his homophobic and racist slurs."

"And what about the kid?" asked Dean.

The two men looked at each other with a sad expression on their faces.

"We should have done more to help him," said Kyle, the boyfriend.

"Poor Simon. I used to see him sitting in the porch, all alone," Ethan said. "He used to tell me about his mom and how she had promised to come to look for him one day. Well, that was before Farley forbade him to talk to me because he didn't want him to catch 'my faggotry.'" He drew finger quotes in the air, obviously resented.

"Was he abusive towards Simon?" Dean asked.

"We supposed he was," said Kyle. "We called Child Services a couple of times when we heard him scream. We know they took him away at least once."

Dean nodded. That coincided with what Detective Martinez had told them.

"But it didn't stand," Ethan said. "Farley showed them how much he loved his son, how he was trying to be better for him… two weeks later, the boy was back, and James was back to being an asshole."

Dean nodded again. The story sounded strangely familiar to him.

"We didn't notice Simon was missing because we were busy with the moving," Kyle continued, pointing at the boxes piled up everywhere around the house. "If we have known…"

By the way they spoke; Dean deduced the two of them assumed Simon was dead. Not that he could blame them. Not many angry spirits snatched children to keep alive.

"Tell me about the night of the murder. You said you heard a shooting around two in the morning," said Dean. "But you didn't report it right the way."

"Well, you know, sometimes Farley would get drunk and start shooting at cans in the yard," Ethan said. He obviously disapproved of the use of guns. "We only called when we heard him scream. I thought the moron had finally and literally shot himself in the foot."

"That is weird, though," Kyle frowned. "The police arrived, but they couldn't get inside. All the doors were locked…"

"No, not locked, more like… stuck," said Ethan. "The officers tried to kick it open, several times, but they couldn't. All the time, Farley kept screaming for help." The man quivered. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't feel exactly sorry that he's dead, but…"

"It… sounded pretty awful," Kyle contributed.

"And then, what happened?"

"Then… Farley stopped screaming, and a second later, the door open," said Ethan. "It was the weirdest thing."

"Alright, well, I think I have everything we need," said Dean, standing up. Castiel followed his lead.

"Thank you for your time," he said.

"Not at all, agents."

"Well, that _is_ weird," said Dean once they were back in the Impala. "Everything points towards an angry spirit but…"

"What kind of spirit kidnaps children?" Castiel completed.

"And what's the deal with the mirrors?" asked Dean. "It's like a Rawhead and Bloody Mary had a love child."

Castiel gave him a confused look. "How is it possibly for spirits to reproduce?"

Dean let out a chuckle. Cas could be irritating with his tendency to take everything literally, but sometimes it could be a good laugh, and that was exactly what Dean needed. He _really _hated it when kids were involved.

"I don't know, Cas, but it's definitely worth sticking around," he said. "I'll put Sam and Kevin to investigate; you and I can call it a night."

* * *

Of course, the last thing Dean did was call it a night.

Once they found a mildly decent motel on the outskirts of town, and Castiel could finally remove his fed clothes (How did he never notice suits were so itchy?), he sat down on the bed to watch some TV, but Dean turned on his laptop and started typing something. Then he stopped typing, and ate one of the hamburgers they had bought on the way, while still staring at the screen. Then he finished the hamburger, but continued to stare at the screen.

Castiel didn't need his old powers to know that Dean probably had the police reports and the pictures of the missing children on display. As still as the hunter was, his mind was probably a swarm of ideas, trying to find something the police had overlooked, looking for the connection between the victims. He knew it was better not to disturb Dean when he was thinking, but he couldn't help to worry. It was rare to see his friend this quiet.

"Hey, Dean," he called him. "That… that movie that you like is on… the one with the spaceships…"

"Yeah, that's great, Cas," Dean mumbled, without paying attention.

That was a bad sign. Usually, Dean would have jumped at the opportunity to lecture Castiel about the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars. Castiel at least knew the first one was the one with the alien Dean said was a lot like him.

"I do not truly see the resemblance," he told Dean, but obtained no response. He turned back to the TV and tilted his head. "I do not possess pointy ears…"

"Cas, could you please…?!" Dean snapped. The fallen angel fell silent, and Dean rubbed his temples. "I'm sorry, Cas. I just, uh… I need to figure this one out. We can watch the movie later, okay?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said, lowering his tone.

Dean turned back to the screen, and ignored him for the rest of the night. Castiel watched the movie (turning the volume as low as he could), and by the end of it, he was a little dizzy from all the lens flare. When the credit started rolling, he turned off the TV and looked back at Dean. He hadn't moved an inch.

"I am going to bed," Castiel announced. Dean groaned as to indicate that he had heard him. "Are you… planning to sleep?"

"Yeah, in a minute," Dean muttered.

Castiel knew that meant he wasn't.

* * *

Amanda Miller was having a bad night. First, David, the moron she had for a boyfriend, had screamed at her that she was a bad mother. But how could he know? He was never around anyway. And besides, it wasn't her fault if Gary decided to run away in the middle of the night to go with his friends. Yeah, she roughed him up a bit, broke a plate on his head, or two. The brat had it coming for calling her a junkie whore. She was not a whore.

Then, Martin had told her he couldn't sell her anything, that she owed him too much money. Amanda had thrown a fit, but her dealer remained indifferent. At the end of it, he had grabbed her by the arm (Amanda might or might not have tried to scratch his eye out) and kicked her out of his house. She continued to yell at the closed door, but to no avail. When her throat started aching, she left. Well, screw Martin. He had just lost himself a client.

At least that was what she was thinking when she returned to her apartment, but then David started making a fuss about Gary's whereabouts and something about a murderer who kidnapped kids loose on the town. Amanda had asked him why he had to speak so loudly, and that's when David had stormed out, after declaring she was a lost cause, and that he was going to take Gary (as soon as he found him) and dumped her ass once and for all. Well, good riddance to both of them. She never wanted to have the brat anyway.

What Amanda needed desperately was a little bit of peace. And a fix. Was that really too much to ask?

She knew there was no point in searching through David's pockets or his usual stashes. The bastard didn't leave money lying around anymore. It was like he didn't trust her. But, wait, didn't Gary have one of those red moneyboxes? Yeah. She could pick the lock and take what she found. Maybe add a bit of cash from something she could pawn. It would convince Martin to sell her at least a small fix.

She went into Gary's room and sure enough, she found the box on the desk. It was really light, but she could hear the handful of coins rolling inside. Of course it would be light. Why would the brat want money anyway?

She went into the bathroom to look for a hairpin, and almost dropped the box. Her hands were shaking. All of her was shaking. She assumed it was because her last fix had been too many days ago. She didn't notice any particular change in the apartment's temperature.

Not until her fingertips were too unsteady to work the hairpin, anyway. What was wrong with the heating? And who turned out the lights? Mrs. Trevor (that old bitch) had probably cut their electricity again. In any case, it was too dark to see in the bathroom now. Amanda straightened up, and noticed the bathroom mirror had gotten all foggy. She wiped it with her sleeve, and almost didn't see the teenage boy with the bleeding ear standing behind her.

Almost.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream right before the mirror shattered.


	3. Act 2 - The Runaways

Dean was growing too old for this shit.

He had that thought at least twice a month lately, and it was particularly strong when he stayed awake for the whole night, like he had that day.

He had been shot, bitten, stabbed and killed more times that he could count. He had watched his brother being shot, bitten, stabbed and killed more times that he liked to remembered. He had saved more than his fair share of lives. He had hunted more than enough things that go bump in the night. He had been through Hell and Purgatory and lost more friends than it was healthy for anybody's sanity. He had stopped the fucking Apocalypse, for crying out loud!

Sometimes he wondered what stopped him from settling somewhere nice (the bunker counted as somewhere nice, especially now that Sam had planted that little garden on the entrance). Why he kept scanning the newspapers, looking for a clue of supernatural activity. Why he stayed neck deep in the petty feud (he couldn't call it a war anymore, not with the ridiculous proportions it had taken lately) between angels and demons.

Why he was awake at the crack of dawn, functioning on three cups of coffee Castiel had so gently gotten him, standing in a bathroom with the walls painted in blood, and looking at the lifeless body of a poor twenty-something woman, murdered by an angry spirit.

He was too old for this shit.

"The victim's name is Amanda Miller. Mrs. Trevor, the landlady, heard her scream around three in the morning," Detective Martinez was telling them. She too looked like she hadn't slept a wink. "She called the police right away. The body was still warm when they found her."

Like James Farley, Amanda had been savagely mutilated. Her arms and wrists were cut wide open, and her neck was bent backwards in an odd angle. Her blonde hair (Dean assumed it was blonde, it was hard to tell from all the dried blood) hanged right outside the bathtub where the son of a bitch had laid her. There were mirror shards everywhere.

"Why is this moneybox here?" Castiel asked, pointing curiously at the red box in the sink. Strangely, Dean had a pang of nostalgia. He used to have a moneybox just like that one when he was a kid.

"Did she have a kid?" Dean asked, suddenly.

"Gary Cooper, thirteen," Detective Martinez said. "His father…"

"Oh, my God!" somebody screamed from the door. "What happened?!"

"We'll talk to him," Dean offered, and made a sign to Castiel.

The man sitting in the couch was about the same age as Amanda, and he was pale and hyperventilating while a police officer tried to calm him down.

"Mr. Cooper, I'm Agent Page," Dean said, flashing his badge in front of the man (not that he would notice, in the state he was in). "We need to ask you some questions…"

"Is that lunatic, isn't he?" Cooper asked, raising his bloodshot eyes at Dean. "He's taken my boy, and now he killed Amanda!"

"Let's start from the beginning," Dean said, using his most calming voice. "When did you first notice Gary was gone?"

"Just last night," Cooper said. "I'm a trucker; I spend a lot of time on the road. I came home, and Gary was gone, and Amanda was having a bad case of cold turkey. We argued, and I left…"

"I can vouch for Mr. Cooper," Detective Martinez intervened. "He went to the police station to report his son missing."

"Please, you have to find him!" Cooper begged them, standing up and grabbing Dean's arm forcefully. "He's only thirteen!"

"Alright, well…"

"This doesn't look like a place where a child lives," Castiel said. Dean turned to look at the former angel, who was scanning the room with a frown. "There are no pictures of him, nothing that would indicate his presence here…"

Dean was going to tell him maybe that wasn't the best time to bring that up, but Mr. Cooper bowed his head, like he was ashamed.

"Amanda and Gary fight… fought a lot," he said. "Sometimes she was violent towards him. He spends a lot of time in his room…"

Something clicked inside Dean's head. "Mr. Cooper, the red moneybox…?"

"That's where Gary keeps all his savings," Cooper said.

Dean turned away from the man, and walked back into the bathroom. "Let me see that thing," he asked one of the forensics. The box was light, and when he shook it, he could only hear some coins clattering inside. "There's almost nothing left," he said, to no one in particular.

"Why does it matter?" Detective Martinez said. "The mom was an addict; she probably stole it…"

"No, no, she didn't," Dean interrupted her. Suddenly, he felt the overdose of caffeine he had ingested earlier kicking in. "She was trying to, that's why it was in the bathroom. But Gary was smarter than that; he knew his mom was a junkie. He wouldn't have left the box anywhere she could find it, unless…"

"Unless he didn't care if she found it," Detective Martinez finished his thought. "Bring me some gloves and something to pick this lock," she told one of the officers.

Before they open it and ascertain there were was only a handful of coins left, Dean already knew they weren't going to find any important amount of money.

"Gary took it with him," he said.

"But he was abducted," said Castiel, confused.

"No, no, he wasn't," replied Dean. "He took the money he had been saving for a while. The spir… I mean, the kidnapper wouldn't have left him take it if he'd had to force Gary to go with him. Which means…"

"He somehow convinced Gary to run away," said Detective Martinez, her face lightening up as she finally started to see a break in the case. "He isn't snatching these kids…"

"He's rescuing them," Dean completed. "He's rescuing them from their abusers."

"But the only confirmed cases of abuses we've had are Gary and Simon," Detective Martinez argued.

"Well, maybe you need to take a deeper look at the others," Dean pointed. "My partner and I are going to interrogate some witnesses. We'll be in touch in case there's any further development."

He turned around and left the apartment without waiting for Detective Martinez's answer. Castiel had to run to keep his pace.

"Which witnesses are we going to interrogate now?" he asked.

"None," said Dean, practically ripping the tie from his neck as he opened the door of the Impala. "We're done playing feds. I think I know who our vengeful spirit is."

* * *

"We were getting nowhere investigating the first victim," Dean explained to Castiel once they were back in the motel. "So I asked Sam to widen the search to all the missing children within the last year."

"The murders started six months ago, yes?" Sam's voice came from the phone's speaker, while Dean started piling up the printed articles his brother had sent him. "Well, _nine_ months ago, two other kids disappeared, only Detective Martinez didn't include them in her report because nobody died… except someone did."

"I'm not following," said Castiel, as he watched Dean pace around the motel room, barely able to contain his excitement at all the progress they were making. "Who died?"

"The kids' mother," Dean said, pulling an article with the picture of a smiling woman next to a crashed car for Castiel to see.

"Laura Bloom," Sam continued to explain from the phone. "She died in a car accident, eight years ago. Her two kids, a boy, ten, and a girl, six; were in the accident, and the girl told one of the reporters they had gone out of the road because their parents were arguing. Some people speculated maybe the dad hit her, but nothing could be proven."

"So the two kids who first disappeared," said Castiel, starting to ginger up. "Are her children?"

"George and Emily Bloom," said Dean, proudly presenting Castiel with another set of photographs. "Now, eighteen and fourteen."

He stood there, maybe expecting Castiel to congratulate him for being able to join the dots so quickly, but Castiel still had doubts.

"So you're thinking Laura's spirit took them away?" Castiel asked. "Because their father was also abusive towards them? Why now?"

Dean shrugged. "Must have taken her all these years to finally gain enough strength and rage to murder someone," he suggested.

"But what about the mirrors?" the former angel pointed. "That doesn't fit the way she died, or…"

"I dunno," Dean said, visibly growing impatient. "Maybe the broken mirrors in the car were the last thing she saw or something like that."

"No, Cas is right," said Sam. "It doesn't quite fit, Dean."

"Look, we've got her," Dean groaned. "Now all we have to do is find out more things about her se we know where she took the kids."

"If they're still alive," Sam pointed.

"_Of course_ they're still alive!" Dean shouted. "She's a mother. She was trying to save them. She wouldn't have hurt them!"

Castiel shot him a skeptical look, and Dean was sure that if Sam had been there, he'd done the same.

"Don't argue with me here," Dean told them, annoyed at their lack of faith in his hunch. "Laura Bloom's gotta be the angry spirit."

"Dean…"

"We're going to go talk to her husband right now," Dean decided, putting on his coat again.

"Dean…"

"But I'll eat my Baby if we find him alive. Laura probably offed him, but nobody reported him since nobody would miss him…"

"Dean…"

"What, Cas?!" Dean snapped. "You have a better plan?"

"No," Castiel admitted. "I was just going to say we'll need the badges for that."

"Oh," said Dean, looking at the badge Castiel was handing him. "Yes. Well thought, Cas."

The fallen angel gave him a half smile. If he had been a dog, he probably would have waved his tail lazily to show how please he was with himself.

"Alright, we'll wrap this up quickly," Dean told Sam. "You rest. There's still some soup in the fridge, if you two gluttons hadn't finished it. And don't forget to change Kevin's bandages!"

"Yes, Dean," Sam said, and Dean could practically see him rolling his eyes before hanging up.

"Well, let's roll," Dean ordered, already marching towards the door. Castiel took a couple of seconds to follow him, and Dean couldn't help to notice his smile had become a little stiff and forced. "Okay, what's up?"

"Nothing," said Castiel, getting inside the Impala. "I just, uh… I just really hope you're right."

Dean hoped he was right too. Because he was certain no other spirit would keep the children alive. Not for a good cause, at least. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his head as they sped through the town.

* * *

Castiel really wished Dean didn't mean it when he said he was going to eat his car. He was sure it wasn't humanly possible; not to mention highly inconvenient, transport wise. Not only was Laura Bloom's husband alive, and living in a small house with a neat garden in the nicest part of town, he also seemed like a fairly decent man who would never raise a hand to his children. In fact, he was so skinny and short (and looked even more so thanks to his wrinkled sweater vest and his oversized trousers) Castiel doubted he had the necessary strength to hit anybody.

"Oh, God," he exclaimed when they showed him their fake badges, authentic concern in his face. "Do you have news about my kids?"

"Can we talk inside?" Dean asked. Mr. Bloom let them in with a gesture. "When was the last time you saw them?"

"October 31st," Mr. Bloom told them, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. "They were too old to go trick or treating, but they said they'd be 'hanging out' with some friends. They never made it to the party."

"I see," Dean said. Castiel could tell he was pretty irritated his hunch was wrong, so the fallen angel started pacing around the room while the hunter continued with the routine questions. "This may sound strange to you, but have you heard any strange noises in the house? Maybe sudden drops of temperature?"

"Well… the heating broke down in January…"

Castiel stopped his pacing in front of a library full of books alphabetically ordered, and portraits spread across the shelves. The crystals looked like they have been obsessively dusted, and the pictures followed a chronological order: on the top shelves there were Emily and George, as babies and toddlers, and the following ones had them eating mashed potatoes, showing their missing teeth, playing in the garden, going to school, opening presents. They both had the same dirty blond hair as their father.

Castiel noticed there were no more photos of George after the one where he was shown unwrapping a red racing bike, at age nine or ten. The following ones were all of Emily: smiling at the camera with her hazel eyes shining, holding a silver medal with the school athletic team, in a group hug with two other friends, hiking in the woods around town, her hair hidden under a blue cap.

There were no pictures of Laura.

Castiel frowned. Why did that seem important? He turned to point that out to Dean, but the hunter was getting, as they said, all worked up, and Mr. Bloom looked equally irritated.

"Look, I'm just a small town English teacher, desperate to know what happened to my children," he was saying.

"And that's exactly what we're trying to find out, Mr. Bloom," Dean answered, unable to hide his anger. "So if you could please answer my questions honestly…"

"I _am_ being honest! I don't understand what my wife's death has to do with anything!"

Castiel resumed his saunter, uncertain if he should intervene, when something caught his eye. Hanging on the wall across the book shelves, there was a big mirror with a golden frame. For what he had seen, Mr. Bloom was very circumspect with the cleaning – in fact, everything in the living room and the garden was immaculate and in their right place, to the point of it all being just a little bit unnerving.

But not the mirror. Somehow, it was a little bit off. Castiel had to take a step closer and kneel in front of it to realize exactly why.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?" Mr. Bloom asked. He sounded goaded.

"The mirror is smaller," Castiel explained.

"Come again?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow.

"There used to be another mirror here," said Castiel, sliding his fingers right beneath the mirror's frame. "One that was slightly larger, and hanged in this spot for years. This one is almost the same side, but not exactly. It doesn't cover all the marks in the paper wall."

"That is nonsense! It is the same mirror I've always had!" Mr. Bloom shouted, in full on fury. "I don't understand what that has anything to do with my kids! In fact, what kind of FBI agents are you?"

"Calm down, Mr. Bloom," Dean tried to say.

"I'd like you to leave now!"

Castiel knew that was a clear cue to make a retreat, so he hurriedly followed Dean back to the car before Mr. Bloom could make any more threats.

"He did it," said Dean as soon as they closed the doors of the Impala. Castiel could almost feel the fury radiating from his body.

"But he's alive," the fallen angel protested.

"Well, he did _something_," said Dean. "He was all defensive while I was asking about Laura, and did you notice how he never called his children by their names? I'm telling you; he's our guy!"

Castiel said nothing, and Dean almost exploded.

"Don't give me that look, Cas!" he shouted. "Just because he looked like Mr. I'm-All-Innocent with his glasses and his sweater vest it doesn't mean…!"

"I think you're right," said Castiel.

"Of course I'm right, why would you…?" Dean started; then stopped in his tracks. "Wait, you really think so?

"I believe the way he acted at the simple mention of the mirror was, as you would say, an overreaction," said Castiel. "That's usually an indicator of a guilty conscience."

"Well, you got that right…"

"However, I am… concerned," Castiel continued, choosing his words even more carefully than usual. "About you, Dean."

"When are you not?" Dean groaned, as they turned around the town's square.

"You have been increasingly on edge since yesterday," Castiel pointed. "And I'm afraid it will prompt you to act recklessly."

"Come on, Cas, when have I ever done that?" Dean asked, as he moved to the right to give way to a boy in a red bicycle.

Castiel stared at him, hesitating. "Do you want me to answer in historical order or by the gravity of the consequences your actions entailed?"

Dean opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then closed it. After a few seconds, he forced himself to answer: "Okay, you might have a point."

"It is a rather long list," Castiel commented.

"Got it!" said Dean, parking in front of the police station. "I'm just going to talk to Detective Martinez, and then we are going to go back to keep an eye on Bloom. Not recklessly. From across the street."

"I will get us something to eat, then," Castiel decided, exiting the car too. "I've noticed you tend to be more relaxed when on a full stomach."

"You do that," Dean sighed.

Castiel walked down the block, towards the mini market they had passed earlier. He almost stumbled against the red bike that had been carelessly stationed on the door, so his entrance was less than graceful, but there was no one to notice but the boy in the black cap and the boring looking cashier, who was too busy chewing gum and passing the pages of a magazine.

It had taken Castiel a while to learn how to walk down the aisles without knocking something over and chose the products within his budget. Now he was almost used to it, and shopping was one of the things he could do to actually help around the bunker.

He had just spotted the last package of chocolate chip muffins (he had just found out that they were out of pie), and went to grab it when, just his luck, the only other costumer in the store, the boy with the black cap, went to do the same.

They eyed each other from the distance, neither of them willing to let go. It suddenly occurred to Castiel that he knew this boy, but he couldn't be sure of where he had seen him before.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. His voice was rather soft. "I need this for my brother."

"But you already have the orange muffins," Castiel pointed, after taking a look at the boy's cart.

"Yes, this is for my other brother," said the boy. "They don't like the same kind of muffins."

Castiel released the package with a sigh. Dean would have to conform with cookies.

"Thank you, sir," said the boy and turned around to pay for his groceries.

And just as he did, a long lock of dirty blonde hair escaped his cap. And suddenly Castiel realized the cap wasn't black, it was just very dirty. And at the same time, he realized he _did_ know who this boy was.

"Emily?" he called. She froze, and shot him a terrified look with her hazel eyes wide open. Castiel had no more doubts. "You're Emily Bloom…"

Fast as lightning, Emily threw her cart at Castiel's chest (the groceries spilling everywhere, the fallen angel clashing against the shelves, and thus ruining his record of shopping without knocking something down), and flew across the door towards the red bike. Castiel recovered as quickly as he could, and ignoring the screaming and complaints from the cashier, he dashed after Emily.

The girl saw him, quitted fighting the padlock of her bike and just sprinted down the street.

"Hey!" Castiel screamed. "Wait!"

Emily was zigzagging fast, but Castiel managed not to lose her among the shocked bystanders that barely had time to move out of their way. Emily turned around a corner, and slipped inside an alley, but before she could climb the fence, Castiel was practically hovering over her.

"Wait!" he said. "I just want to…"

He didn't finish the phrase. All words seemed to have scrambled out of his brain. A part of him realized he was paralyzed, yet there was a slight tremor on his knees. Not for the first time since he was human, Castiel experienced a sear of panic, but it was much more shocking because of the suddenness of it.

Emily had pulled out a gun, and the barrel was aiming straight at his face.


End file.
